


To Live Without You Would Only Mean Heartbreak For Me

by Duck_Life



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Prayer, Religion, Totally Eighties, Wolverine Footie Pajamas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duck_Life/pseuds/Duck_Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan doesn't really understand Kurt's relationship with God but that doesn't mean he's going to stop asking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live Without You Would Only Mean Heartbreak For Me

Kurt sits up, his customary three pillows cushioned up behind him, his hands clasped in prayer, his lips moving soundlessly. Leaning over the counter in the bathroom, Logan’s engaged in his own nightly ritual of meticulously plucking his eyebrows. Being the Wolverine may have plenty of perks, but all that hair growing back overnight is definitely one of the downsides. And Logan’ll be damned before he goes up against ol’ Buckethead or Arcade with a damn monobrow.

“Hey, elf,” he calls through the open bathroom door, “can I ask you something?”

Evidently not while he’s praying. Kurt doesn’t answer him at first; he finishes up and murmurs, “Amen.” Then he glances across the room at his partner. “Hmm?” he says, looking sleepy, the fur on one side of his face tufted upward. “What, what is it?”

Logan finishes with the tweezers and tosses them back in his toiletries bag. “How does God hear you when you always pray so quiet?” he says, flopping down onto the bed. The old mattress sinks under the added weight.

Kurt rolls his eyes and crosses an ankle over Logan’s, curling into him like a content cat. “Because,” he says, smirking, “He has ears like a wolverine.”

They get into arguments a lot. Over everything. Which kind of ice cream to buy, whose turn it is to take Kitty to dance class, which Danger Room scenario to run, whether Cher was better pre- or post-breakup.

Occasionally when they’re fighting, Logan makes a really dumb comment and Kurt huffs and mumbles, “ _Mein Gott_ , you are testing me.”

“You know I don’t like it when you talk to God while I’m having a conversation with you.”

“This is not a conversation,” Kurt says, sharp teeth flashing, puffed up like he’s seriously pissed. “This is not a conversation, Logan, because you _refuse_ to see reason.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the one who refuses to see reason?”

“‘I Got You Babe’ is a _classic_.”

One night Kurt’s lying stretched out on the bed, eyes half closed, blissed out like he’s had every ounce of tension carefully drawn out of him. Beside him, Logan lays back with his hands propped behind his head, naked, sweaty, and satisfied.

Exhausted, they both start to drift off, the _whirr_ of the air conditioning washing over them, ruffling the thin sheets and Kurt’s fur. Logan glances over to see Kurt saying his nighttime prayers before going to sleep.

This time he doesn’t interrupt; he’s learned. Logan waits until he sees Kurt mouth _Amen_ before speaking. “Kurt?”

“Mm?”

“Doesn’t God have a problem with…” he frowns, “with the gay thing?”

Kurt huffs a tiny laugh without opening his eyes. “Not my God,” he says. “The way I see it, _Schatz_ , if I can be a blue devil and still a child of God, then there’s nothing stopping me from being gay—” he yawns— “and still a child of God.”

It’s a hot Sunday afternoon and Logan’s sitting cross-legged on their bed, matching socks. Across the room, Kurt has the ironing board out and he’s working through a pile of button-down shirts. “Elf?”

“For the last time, Logan, if you can’t find the matching sock, you put it in the Lonely Singles bag in the laundry room.”

“No, not that,” Logan says, sifting through the pile of identical-looking red and white socks on the bed. “I was just wondering— do you have a problem with me saying Jesus Christ?”

Kurt cocks an eyebrow. “Why would I have a problem with you saying Jesus Christ?”

“No, like… if I stub my toe, or like, get my hand chopped off, ya know. _Jesus Christ!_ Or, like, ‘Oh my God.’”

“Well, I do have a problem with you saying ‘Oh my God,’” Kurt says, “because you’re not a teenage girl.”

“Teenage girls don’t say that. Illyana doesn’t say that.”

Kurt sighs. “ _Liebling_ , Illyana would probably burst into flames if she said anything about God.”  

“Aw, come on,” Logan says, bundling a pair of socks. “Illyana’s just like every other teenage girl. She puts her Jordache jeans on one cloven hoof at a time.”

Kurt snorts when he laughs, and Logan’s completely in awe at the way he can make the sound sound so damn precious. “You can say whatever you want, Logan,” he says. “But if it really bothers you, you could always just say ‘oh my gosh’ or ‘oh my goodness.’”

“Goodness gracious,” Logan grins, and throws a pair of socks at him.

Logan swallows his nightly antidepressants with a gulp of cold faucet water, the tiny Dixie cup looking absolutely minuscule in his hand. Kurt sneaks up behind him and snakes an arm around his waist. “Do you like my new pajamas?”

Logan almost coughs up the water. “Oh my goodness,” he says, earning a snort from Kurt. “Elf, what the hell are those?”

“Did you know they sold these?” Kurt asks, turning around so he can model his fuzzy, hooded, footed Wolverine pajamas. “I’m never taking them off.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Tough,” he says, and leaps into bed, burrowing under the covers.

“No,” Logan says, wetting his toothbrush, “I mean, that’s not fair because I don’t have PJs with _you_ on ‘em.”

“Oh,” Kurt says, “they don’t make them with me on them.”

“That’s not fair,” Logan says again, squeezing out the last dregs of Colgate onto his toothbrush. “I mean, you’re the best one.”

Kurt snorts.

While Logan brushes his teeth, Kurt prays, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes closed. When he’s finished in the bathroom, Logan flicks off the light and slides into bed beside Kurt, laughing a little at the sight of, well, _himself_ patterned all over Kurt’s onesie in bright yellow and blue. “Amen,” Kurt whispers, and Logan wraps an arm loosely around him and nuzzles into his shoulder.

“Maybe I can get the Kit-Kat to make me some original Nightcrawler pajamas,” Logan says. “She’s into that fashion designing stuff right now, right?”

“You’ve seen her uniform,” Kurt points out. “I don’t know if I’d call that _fashion_.”

Logan laughs deep in his belly, the sound of it thrumming through the whole bed. They’re quiet for a moment, a patch of moonlight slanting into the room, the world around them still. “Hey, Kurt?”

“Mmhmm?”

“What do you pray about?” he asks. “I mean, what kinds of stuff are you saying? ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’?”

Kurt chuckles and Logan can feel it reverberating back in his own chest. He loves when they’re this close, legs tangled together and hands brushing against each other, warm and safe. “I ask forgiveness,” Kurt says. “I ask for strength, and I pray for good things to come. If I know someone going through a rough time, I pray for them. I ask for courage and serenity, and I thank Him for my blessings.”

“Blessings?” Logan says. “Like what? The angry mobs? The anti-mutant rallies?”

“The family I’ve found, the beautiful trees,” Kurt counters. “Beer. The world is full of good things, Logan. You just have to look for them. And when you do find them, you say thank you.”

“Hm,” Logan says. “I do like beer.” They fall asleep, Logan draped around Kurt so completely that he looks like he came with the pajamas.

Being a superhero is a dangerous job. Being an X-man is an even more dangerous job. Being James Logan Howlett trumps both.

Kurt waits in the infirmary, perched on the edge of a chair that was brought in for him two days ago. Ororo and Kitty keep stopping by the check on Logan, but Kurt’s the only one who hasn’t left the infirmary since the battle.

“Wake up, Logan,” Kurt whispers, putting his hand lightly over Logan’s, which is still mangled and broken, his healing factor preoccupied with his head wounds and his leg. Kurt’s in dire need of a shower, his eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t leave. “Please wake up,” he says, and then he goes back to praying.

On the third day— and Logan’ll make an inappropriate joke about that, Kurt’s sure of it— Logan opens his eyes.

“Oh no,” he says, with no real inflection in his tone but a mischievous gleam in the one eye that’s not covered by bandages. “It’s the devil. I knew I’d end up in hell.”

“That’s rude,” Kurt says, happy tears sparking in his eyes because Logan’s _alive_ and _okay_. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a bus,” Logan says, “and the bus was angry.” He sighs and looks down at his still-healing body. Now that he’s woken up, most of his minor scrapes and lacerations seem to be knitting back together faster. “Elf, what in the blazes happened t’me?”

“Sentinel.”

Logan frowns. “But what about my magic bones?”

“It was made of adamantium,” Kurt says. “And you don’t have magic bones.”

Logan winks. “I think I’ve got at least one.”

“You’re a _child_.”

“ _That’s_ rude,” Logan says. “I’m like… 200-somethin’ years old.”

“Then act like it.”

Logan flashes a smile. “Come here,” he says, and he reaches out with his newly intact hand to loop around Kurt’s waist and pull him onto the cot— or he attempts to, at least. “Nope, nope,” he groans as his ribs and leg protest. “I’m still, uh, I’m still pretty messed up, let’s just… let’s just—”

“Here,” Kurt says gently, taking Logan’s hand very, very carefully and remaining in his seat. “How’s that?”

“Better,” Logan says, and he grips Kurt’s hand even though it makes him wince a little. “You been here the whole time?”

“Of course,” Kurt says, and he thinks about telling him how worried he’s been, about the millions of possibilities that have been spinning through his head— that Logan’ll wake up with no memories, that Logan’ll wake up in a berserker rage. That Logan won’t wake up at all. Instead he says only, “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Logan says, brushing a rough thumb over the back of Kurt’s hand. Then— “Were you praying for me?”

Kurt settles back in his chair without letting go of Logan’s hand. “I was.”

“Well, here I am,” Logan says.

Kurt blinks. “Are you trying to tell me you believe in God now?”

“Dunno,” Logan says, and shrugs— painfully. “But I know I believe in you.”

“ _Schatz_ ,” Kurt says, voice soft as the downy fur behind his ears. He leans over and places his forehead over their clasped hands, listening to Logan’s breathing. “I think that was the lamest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Kiss my ass.”

As soon as Logan’s healed up— _really_ healed up, not “good enough” healed up, Ororo’s insistent—he lumbers back to the room he shares with Kurt to find his partner making a feeble attempt at sorting out whose socks belong to whom.

“Hey,” Logan says, smirking and shutting the door behind him. “So now that I’m out of that damn infirmary… and we’ve finally got some privacy…”

Kurt glances up at him, a blue sock in each hand. “Really?”

Logan manages to keep the suggestive expression up for about a second before he breaks. “No,” he sighs. “All of me hurts. I feel like a slab of meat that got tenderized with one of those… little… what’re they called?”

“Meat tenderizers.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, ‘slab of meat,’” Kurt says, scooching over and patting the bed beside him. “You need to rest.”

“Yeah, that’s what I need,” he says, thumping down on the bed and leaning back into Kurt’s arms.

Kurt’s hands interlock around Logan and he rests his chin on Logan’s shoulder, his tail winding down to loop loosely around Logan’s ankle. “You didn’t make an innuendo about, ah, ‘tenderizing my meat,’” he notes.

“I’m… even thinking about sex hurts.”

Kurt snorts. “Maybe I’ll finally get the laundry done.”

That night after Kurt finishes praying, Logan turns to look at him, ignoring the ache in his leg and neck. “What’d you thank Him for?” he whispers.

“You,” Kurt says, and he settles back into his three pillows and blends quietly into the blue shadows of the night.


End file.
